


Finally, the Sun.

by kiitos



Category: 16th & 17th Century CE RPF, 16th Century CE RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiitos/pseuds/kiitos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1616 and Will’s beard has so much white streaked through it, he sometimes forgets what colour it used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finally, the Sun.

It is 1616 and Will’s beard has so much white streaked through it, he sometimes forgets what colour it used to be. His hands tremble when he picks up a quill so he is disinclined to even try. He’s back in Stratford now, London having lost its sparkle a long time ago, and his family surround him. He has made sure his daughters are well cared for and his wife will not want for anything and with a sense of finality he goes to bed alone.

Sleep does not come easy and he thinks maybe he’s started to hallucinate, for Kit is standing by the door. He has the face of a young man, perpetually twenty nine and smirking. He hasn’t changed in the slightest, apart from the scrap of material tied carefully across his eye. Will swallows thickly and imagines the scar behind that piece of cloth, Kit tuts.

Will sits and watches the ghost of his best friend and lover judge him as he always did, but Kit’s eyes (eye, Will reminds himself) is sad.

“Fifty one is no great age, William.” He whispers softly, crossing the room and sitting next to Will. The bed does not depress for his weight and a lump catches in Will’s throat, twenty four years and the pain is still raw.

In the distance the church clock strikes twelve and Will corrects Kit’s statement, “Fifty two is great enough.”

Kit watches him, his one eye disturbingly bright and clear in the candlelight. Will wonders what it feels like but doesn’t know how to ask; instead he reaches out without thinking and holds firmly onto the emotion that threatens to take over him when his hand passes straight through Kit.

“Ask me what you will, Will.” Kit says in his soft whisper, smiling at the old joke and making Will smile too despite everything.

“Does it hurt, dying?” And Will curses himself as soon as he says it, Kit’s death was violent and his face contorts before he can school his pale features back into a slight smirk.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Know-it-all.”

They both laugh and it feels like it did when they were twenty one and this seemed a whole world away. Neither of them ever even considered death outside of the theatre and now it was far too familiar for Will to be entirely comfortable. He shifts and finds himself wishing for the warmth that Kit’s body used to have.

“I am tired, Kit.” He sighs.

“I know.” Kit says and a tear trails down a cheek that doesn’t exist. Will wishes he could wipe it away but he’s tired, so tired.

“Sleep, Will.” Kit whispers close to his ear. Will does and when he wakes again, Kit’s hand is warm in his own and the sun is shining like it hasn’t done for years.


End file.
